Liturgy
by peanutbutterer
Summary: We will not all sleep, but we will all be changed. JohnElizabeth


You were six years old.

Your grandmother died in her sleep. She was a quiet woman who lived a quiet life. Her death was merely a reflection of the way she lived.

The impact of her passing resonated with you only as a whisper, hushed and insignificant, but the day lives on like a photograph fastened to the pages of your mind. The edges are tattered and torn but the image has yet to fade.

You held your father's hand; his grasp weak as you clung tightly to his fingers.

Across from you, a sea of legs – long, pressed, dark – stood out against the gray.

You lifted your gaze when the priest began a prayer. You watched tears fall from your father's unblinking eyes.

A warm drop landed on your hand and trickled down your arm.

It was your first funeral.

* * *

_We will not all sleep, but we will all be changed—_

* * *

You are forty-one years old.

You stand in uncomfortable shoes, hands brushing imagined lint off a pristine black skirt. You don't know what else to do with them.

It is your fifteenth funeral.

You shouldn't know that number, should have lost count by now. And really, you're not counting. Your mind retains the numbers without guidance or encouragement, reminding you when you don't ask to be reminded.

You will remember this day like you remember the first – the faces of the mourners, the dirges ringing in your ears, the smell of freshly cut flowers.

A cold breeze blows across the pier, but you had goosebumps long before.

* * *

Two hours pass before John shows up at your door. Longer than you expected, but not as long as you needed.

You don't know how many times you've done this, you realize, as your fingers carefully unbutton his dress shirt – his jacket already having dropped to the floor, metals tinkling as they hit the polished surface. It's not about death or loss (your fingers aren't always sticky with the starch of his dress blues); it's about fear.

The responsibility that smothers that fear is one thing you both share. In a world of terror, of war, where age is what they give you and life is what they take, you cannot afford to let them see you tremble.

It's your job to put the shattered pieces back together – you cannot become one of them.

* * *

You are forty-one years old.

It is your seventeenth funeral.

Sand whips in the wind, skimming across the ground like rocks across a pond. A deep, hollow instrument plays a slow and sorrowful tune as a woman loudly keens.

There are no formal clothes, no formal words. It is unlike the others and exactly the same.

The faces of the mourners change, but their expressions are etched with the same dark lines. Shadows change shape but never hue.

The scent of freshly cut flowers stings as you inhale.

* * *

No one sees you break, not even him.

And you don't break, not really. You bend. You lose yourself in him, you stow your burdens away until later when you unseal the box and shoulder them again. You open your mouth, your legs, but not your soul.

You kiss along his jaw, his cheek.

It always surprises you how much sweat tastes like tears.

* * *

You are forty-two years old.

It is your eighteenth funeral

Words are spoken, memories relived. A prayer is offered and you bow your head.

Your dress shoes need polishing, you think absently as your eyes sweep across the floor. They sit in your closet until an occasion such as this arrives, collecting dust and growing old. You should take care of them tonight, tend to them now and spare your future mourning self the task.

But you cannot bring yourself to prepare for a funeral in advance.

* * *

He presses you roughly into the wall and fumbles with your belt as you toe off your shoes. He slides your pants down your legs and you push him back, never breaking contact as you move him toward the bed, a trail of clothing left in your wake.

As per custom, you don't speak and neither does he.

You thought about it once. Almost uttered a word of comfort, but thought better of it before it was too late. You bit your tongue, realizing silence is the only comfort you can give.

It's all you've given ever since.

* * *

You are forty-three years old.

It is you twentieth funeral.

The bodies are absent this time, but it doesn't make a difference. Somehow the ghost of them is more of a presence than the flesh and bone ever was.

It rains (like it did during the eighth, the ninth, the twelfth and the fourteenth). Tears fall from the sky and from the faces that surround you.

Not yours.

Never yours.

* * *

You go to him this time, tired of waiting and afraid you'll suffocate.

Fury, pain and sorrow coil inside you, pressing heavily against your lungs.

You let it out the only way you can; your fingernails dig into his back, your teeth into his lips.

The small drops of blood reassure you that he, at least, is alive.

* * *

You are forty-four years old.

It is your twenty-first funeral.

You've heard the words enough times now, you know them by heart. They long ago lost their meaning.

Dog-tags jangle in nearby hands as an American flag is folded before you.

Your head dips low and you realize you still haven't polished your shoes.

* * *

The clothes are shed but nothing is bared. It's futile, you know, too late, you're sure, but somehow you think if you can keep something, anything, to yourself you won't be lost entirely when the time comes.

But maybe your time will come next.

A thin rectangle of cool metal brushes the skin of your chest as John hangs above you.

His mouth covers yours and he swallows your gasp.

* * *

You are forty-five years old.

It is your twenty-second funeral.

_There aren't enough people left_, you think, as you tally the mourners in your periphery. _Not enough_. Memories are all that remain and there are so few left to carry them – so few survivors to tell the tale. More must live, return to Earth; they must endure to make sure history remembers.

It isn't enough that you remember.

* * *

He smells and tastes like alcohol and the floor is cold beneath your bare feet.

The only warmth you feel is his hands on your skin, fingertips like fire as they sear across your body.

You suck in his heat like a leech, letting it spread from the outside in and hoping it reaches deep enough – hoping that by doing so you do not leave him cold.

* * *

You are forty-six years old.

It is your twenty-fifth funeral.

But it's not a funeral, not a real one – it's no more than a whispered, _I'm sorry_ and _I'll miss you_ as explosions rock the floor beneath your feet. The sky is falling, the engine's rumbling and there's no time for ceremony. There's no time for verse or flowers, no time for bowed heads and black clothing.

Atlantis begins to cry, to shout. Numbers tick down as the alarm sounds and sings the city's requiem.

He grabs your hand and pulls you through the gate, leaving Atlantis' corpse behind.

* * *

You reach for the hem of his shirt and he grabs your hands, gently leading you to the bed. He sinks into the mattress and pulls you down beside him.

Without protest, you drop your head to his chest and allow him to wrap his arm around you. The sheets are soft beneath you, and the clothing between you strange and uncomfortable.

You inhale deeply and fill your nose with the scent of him, the warmth of him, and try not to notice the faint trace of smoke that still lingers – the scent of your ghosts and of his.

"It's over," he says softly, chest sinking with the words.

It's not, you know, but you allow yourself a sliver of hope.

You drape your arm across his waist and just hold on.

* * *

You crouch before your grandmother's grave and set a bouquet of flowers on the grass. With a gentle hand, you brush the headstone, wiping dirt from the aged surface.

The sun shines behind you, glowing brightly in the polished marble, and you squint at its reflection.

You see twenty-five funerals looking back at you – twenty-four people you remember and a city you cannot forget.

As you squint against the sun, you finally allow yourself a moment to cry – but only a moment.

There's a story to be told.


End file.
